


Lost and Found

by dearcaspian



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gift Giving, M/M, Romance, maybe a little bit of humor if you squint, only a Bit sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-18 02:43:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14203329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcaspian/pseuds/dearcaspian
Summary: Mahinnah's inner circle go farther than he could have ever anticipated to return something he thought lost forever.





	1. Chapter 1

“You know, I’m remotely certain this isn’t how redecorating works. It’s an avant-garde choice, sure, but what will the visiting dignitaries think?”

Mahinnah froze with one hand on a stack of briefing papers, eyes flicking to the door where an unabashedly amused Dorian stood. The tips of his ears flushed, and not for the first occasion was he glad his hair hid the worst of it.

“You’re making quite the racket up here,” Dorian continued, surveying the scene in front of him. “Two nobles downstairs have convinced themselves a demon was destroying this part of the castle.”

“Is it… that bad?”

“That stack of reports you’re clutching for dear life are the only things remaining in some form of order.”

The Herald slowly stood up straight, trying to regain his composure as he looked around the room. His quarters were in an almost worse state than they had been when the Inquisition had first stumbled upon Skyhold. Letters and notes were strewn all over the floor around his feet. Overshirts and breeches lay in tangled piles tossed out of the closets, joined by various trinkets and oddities that had been picked up throughout their journeys around Thedas. A smithing hammer lay idly on an apparently hastily emptied bookshelf while a dagger had somehow been strung up in the pitifully torn curtains. Outside, near the edge of the balcony, lay a traveling pack solely isolated from the disarray except for a single worn boot.

“Okay,” Mahinnah admitted with a sigh, “it’s bad.”

Dorian gently kicked his way through the wreckage, paying special attention not to step on the things in the room he noted were his own. An entirely unnecessary and exaggerated rustling was made at every nudge of his foot against something, as if to further enunciate the degree of the damage.

“Hmmm. I don’t see any traces of a demon,” he pondered as he stopped on the opposite side of the desk. His smirk was kind, but his tone puzzled. “ Did our great Inquisitor nobly toss it out the window?”

“Into your quarters, more like,” Mahinnah retorted, glancing down. He could still feel heat tingling in his face.

“Ah! Still here, then? As of yesterday the location is one in the same. Forgotten so soon?”

Long seconds passed in which Dorian waited for a response. Eventually, he began to realize nothing was forthcoming. He tilted his head, reaching down to take Mahinnah’s hand from where it was mutilating a report from the last remaining neat stack into a pitiful wrinkle. The palms were calloused from years of work and sparring, tiny nicks and the delicate white lines of faded scars just barely visible to the naked eye. Dorian ran a thumb gingerly over the Mark. Even in daylight it let off a faint glow.

“Hinnah,” questioned Dorian gently, “what is it? Is this about-”

“No.” The answer, and the withdrawal of his hand, were swift and sharp. After a moment Mahinnah visibly bit his lip and then finally met Dorian’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he added, hushed. “It’s not that. I’ve just… lost something.”

“Your ability to organize?”

He huffed out a half-formed laugh, to Dorian’s ease. The tension in his shoulders was beginning to bleed out, evident in the way he slumped slightly forward.

“It’s a... trinket,” he relented. He took a slow, heavy seat in the chair behind him. “Just a small thing. And before you say anything-”

“You collect them by the hundreds-”

“It’s not something I’ve found from my trips here,” finished Mahinnah, choosing to ignore Dorian’s interruption. “It was from long ago. I normally keep it with me, but I thought…”

Dorian’s mind sorted through a myriad of things that could possibly be considered so special they’d warrant something like this. He came up blank, save for the formal fur-lined coat Josephine had specially made in Val Royeaux when Mahinnah had been officially announced as the Inquisition’s leader. That coat was currently hanging over a wardrobe in the corner, miraculously unblemished.

The only options remaining were anything that could have been kept from Mahinnah’s clan, but using his earlier reaction as anything to go by, Dorian had no desire to try and bring it up again in more detail.

It was still a fresh, open wound, that topic. The Inquisitor’s friends had tried their best, each in the separate ways they knew how, to comfort and console. It had helped to an extent. Dorian figured at this point all Mahinnah needed was space in which to breathe. He hadn’t been too open about his family in the past to begin with.

“It must have been some kind of trinket,” Dorian ventured carefully, “for you to destroy the place like this.”

“It’s merely cluttered,” came the small quip of reply.

“If cluttered translates to ‘I would rather sleep outside than here’, then yes, you’re correct. Would you like some help in... finding whatever it is?”

Mahinnah shook his head, brow furrowed. “No,” he said, trying to wrestle the word back just before it slipped out. “Maybe I’ve held on to it for long enough, anyways.”

A split second of indecision trembled in the air between them.

“It’s okay,” he added, sounding a little more determined. “If it turns up, so be it.”

 _Such an awful liar_ , Dorian thought to himself. _How he survived the Game I’ll never know_. Yet, keeping quiet was better than to push him. The stubborn streak hiding underneath all that red hair stretched farther than the borders of Minrathous, and once he decided wholeheartedly on an idea it was incredibly difficult to change his mind. Granted, that was probably one of the reasons they had all made it this far in the fight against Corypheus; it still didn’t mean Dorian couldn’t want to knock him across the head with his staff if he got the chance. A casual, loving knock, he often tried to convince himself.

“If you say so,” Dorian said with finality, unconvinced. He moved to stand next to where Mahinnah sat, expression softening, one arm extended.

“Come on,” he offered kindly. “Let’s get out of this sty. Who’s going to clean it up, by the way? You, I’m assuming, since you created this mess?”

Hinnah took the proffered arm with barely concealed relief, bumping into Dorian when he was pulled unceremoniously upward.

“I’ll spar you for the responsibility,” He joked, slipping reluctantly out of the warmth of Dorian’s grasp. Pausing, he turned and asked, “In all honesty… should I stay here and-”

“No,” Dorian said with a shrug. “It’ll be here when you get back. Maybe if we tell everyone it was in fact a demon, they’ll take pity on you and help. Go on, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Go where, exactly?”

“Wherever his Inquisitorialness desires, of course. It is, after all, your castle.”

Mahinnah eyed him in a way that conveyed a vast sense of thankfulness which Dorian felt too overwhelmed by to comprehend. Dorian watched him leave, pace resigned, lacking its usual poise, with the confused and curious feeling this matter would definitely crop up again soon.

As soon as he rounded the corner, Dorian’s eyes alit on the desk and that odd, wrinkled paper.

He picked it up carefully, smoothing it against the wooden surface. Josephine’s elegant scrawl was instantly recognizable: _My Lord Inquisitor, it is with my deepest regret that I must inform you of…_

“Oh,” he whispered to himself. This was about Mahinnah’s family, indeed. Instead of answering his question, the note merely brought forth a whole host of others. Dorian resolved to ask them another time.

 

-

 

Varric stood at the bottom of the Spymaster’s curving staircase with a sense of trepidation. He wasn’t exactly certain why he felt this way when he had to see Leliana about anything, nor why he referred to the stairs leading up to the topmost section of the tower as ‘her’ stairs. Anyone could visit any part of Skyhold’s tower whenever they wished - within reason, of course. However, the Nightingale had set up shop in this particular part of the castle as soon as Haven’s stragglers had arrived nearly a year ago, and since then not many people who were unaffiliated with her spy network tended to wander in it.

Leliana was nice enough on a daily basis, he supposed. She was respectful, dedicated, cracked a joke when it fit the mood. There were no mentions or rumors of her treating anyone of the Inquisition unkindly, and her devotion to the Maker and the Chantry was an inspiration to many Andrastians. The insinuation that she could know absolutely everything about you, even things you weren’t aware of yourself, was what tended to keep people away. Her spies had spies. Although they were all on the Inquisition’s side, it was still unnerving. Varric knew if he wanted to recall what he had to eat for lunch in the middle of the week three years ago, Leliana could probably tell him.

Then again, he theorized, it may have also been the birds. As swift and silent as they were for messenger work, their caws and the constant scrutiny of their beady eyes made everyone uncomfortable. Some of the more superstitious soldiers thought they could talk. Varric didn’t blame them. Leliana thought this was rather funny, and made no effort to discourage the rumors.

Even now from where he waited he could hear a low bluster from their beaks. Staring up, he saw dark shapes fluttering a long ways above his head. Delicate cages serving as roosts hung like long-dead silver bones. It all gave off a nice aura of do not enter, he thought. Interesting. He’d have to add that to the draft he was working on.

Heaving out a deep breath, he began to take the steps up, long strips of sunlight illuminating the old stone before him. Superficial hollows marked where he tred, depressions worn into the rock from thousands of trips past. How many dignitaries, trespassers, refugees had walked the same path? He blinked in the dim afternoon glow. There were always more dust particles dancing in front of the windows up here, as if this part of the tower were more ancient than everywhere else.

“Have they found anything?”

Varric stopped with only inches of his head visible above the wall that eventually rose up to meet the tower’s floor. He peeked out above the ledge, mulling over the benefits a short stature held for espionage. Something about that voice told him he was about to listen in on a conversation he shouldn’t.

Like all similar conversations from the past, he listened intently.

Across the way the Inquisitor and Leliana stood close. Leliana was shaking her head remorsefully.

“I’m afraid not,” he heard her say. “I’ve had scouts searching for the past few days, and so far we’ve turned up nothing.

There was a small sigh. Varric stood on the tips of his toes, attempting to see more clearly.

“I see,” Mahinnah said. What looked to be a small map of the surrounding area, x’s dotting the pathways, was passed between them. “I appreciate the effort more than you know. Normally I would not ask something like this of you…”

He trailed of, almost abashed.

“It is no trouble, Inquisitor. I’m only sorry we could not help you.”

Help with what? Varric thought. If this was Corypheus related, shouldn’t he have heard about it sooner?

“It was old to begin with,” Mahinnah continued. “Perhaps I… Regardless, thank you. I’ll leave you to your work.”

Not Corypheus, then, but obviously something their leader was trying to convince himself of, and failing.

Footsteps shuffled his way. Varric ducked and slithered down the stairs, cursing the long distance.

“I could keep them looking, if you like,” Leliana offered softly.

“No. Any more would be a waste of their talents and our resources.”

“I know it’s from your Clan, Mahinnah. It’s clearly important.”

Varric stopped, teetering on the edge of a step, waiting.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Leliana?” Mahinnah asked. Varric could tell the question was meant to be harsh, but he heard only tired, finite resignation.

“Very little, Inquisitor.”

Seconds passed in which the two said nothing more. Varric didn’t want to risk staying around any longer. He practically skipped down the last of the staircase and out into the safety the rest of the tower provided. At this point he had completely forgotten what he had gone up to tell Leliana to begin with, too puzzled over what he had witnessed.

 

-

 

“Take that, arse-biscuit!” Sera shouted gleefully, her arrow sinking smoothly in the center of the painted wooden target for the seventh time in a row.

Beside her Mahinnah laughed, the sound ringing out into the courtyard. It was a nice thing to hear, sparse onlookers thought. There was a slight lilt to it, an open enthusiasm. Rarely in the past month had they heard that laugh so casually exclaimed, though very few understood why. The two stood with bows beneath the cloudless sun, the weapon poised more confidently in one set of hands than the other.

“I can hear it now,” Hinnah claimed as he swiped an arrow from the quiver lying on the grass. “Famed last words spoken by the Inquisition’s prime archer as she shoots down Corypheus, sung around celebration campfires for years to come: _take that, arse-biscuit._ ”

Sera snickered, reaching out to half-heartedly shove him. “Don’t knock it. Probably better than whatever you’ll come up with.”

“Oh, sure. If we survive that long.”

“Eugh, don’t be morbid. Save it for Cullen - it weirds him out.”

“Oh no.” He grimaced. “I meant if I survive having shot myself in the foot with this blasted bow.”

As if to demonstrate, he turned and focused in on the target across the way. The arrow let loose with a flick of his fingers, barely hitting the top left of the target a wink later.

Sera let out an exasperated groan. “You know,” she concluded, “you would think that having grown up all elfy, you’d be a lot better at this kind of thing.”

Mahinnah shrugged, reaching down for the quiver once more. “I could never take to archery,” he confessed, a touch sheepishly. “ My aim was more suited to other things. Some of the elders tried and tried, but after I nearly decapitated our Keeper, they tended to leave me be.”

Sera held in a breath. That sentence left her treading in unknown territory. She hadn’t expected him to respond with anything about his upbringing, much less sound casual about it. Past mentions were always stifled, little snatches of mumbled memories followed by a polite refusal to say more. She knew what happened of course, and being the kind of person she was meant she wanted to stay as far as possible from the subject. Regardless, nothing was keeping her from anonymously leaving badly baked cookies in spots he could find them. Acknowledgement of her little gifts had yet to be forthcoming, but the odd crumb or two on his clothes at random moments throughout the day was telltale enough for her.

And now it felt like he was lending her an invitation, however slight. Possibly the opening was unconsciously given. For someone so quick-witted, she found herself groping hastily around for words.

“Er,” she said. _Think, think_.

“You seem to be doing a bit better, though?”

“Oh yes. I’ve been practicing in the dead of night where Varric can’t poke fun. I bet him to a competition in the next few days and now I’m suffering the consequences.”

“You bet Varric to a competition?” Sera exclaimed, astonished. “That’s why you wanted to shoot with me? You couldn’t hit the broadside of a nug! Not with a bow, anyhow.”

“I’m aware,” Mahinnah deadpanned. “It was an unfortunate consequence of trying several sips of  whatever Bull was drinking at the time in the tavern.”

She winced sympathetically. “So what does he get when he wins?”

“The loss of my dignity?”

“Fair enough.” She grinned.

Letting her bow fall to her side, Sera watched him for a long moment, studying the determined way he knocked another arrow. There was a grace to his movements, underplayed by a faint uncertainty she did not see with other weapons he preferred. He struck a noble figure all the same - if she squinted, she got a trace of exactly why the humans had chosen him for their Inquisition.

Still the gap remained, a curiosity luring her in.

“So this Keeper,” she said coolly as she prepared to take another shot.  “I take he didn’t appreciate almost losing his head?”

“She,” Mahinnah corrected automatically. “Istamathoriel. And no, she did not. I was banned from the weapons cache for quite a while. She wasn’t angry with me, but she strongly encouraged me to seek other forms of defense after that. She was the one who suggested my Father to make me a dagger to practice with.”

“What was she like?” Sera pressed, her interest getting the better of her.

“Calm,” the Herald explained reverently. He was staring off into space, courtyard and all its occupants around him forgotten. “Kind. Stern, but only when she needed to be. She encouraged trade with the humans but trusted them only up to a point. As a child I used to…”

His voice broke off, a sure sign she had gone too far.

“No one really asks me these things,” he told her. She tried very hard to gauge the emotion behind his words, but came up blank. He stared at her almost quizzically, as if searching for some kind of intent in her probing.

She felt like a ram caught under a hunter’s torchlight. “Sorry,” she blurted, unable to stop herself. “I know I shouldn’t - that is, I didn’t mean to… ah, _fuck_.”

“It’s okay Sera,” he said slowly. He wasn't smiling, but he did not look unkind, either. “That’s not what I meant. I, um…”

He brushed a hand across the back of his neck awkwardly. “Let’s pick this up later?” he offered. Sera knew he meant the archery lesson, not the conversation. The gap was swiftly closing and she stumbled along the seams as they drew shut. An answer lingered on her tongue but he was already walking away, bow brushing the ground.

“Fuck,” she whispered again. This couldn’t continue. Not only was she troubled for her friend, she worried for the Inquisition. A Herald couldn’t save the world like this.

Perhaps Dorian had some ideas of how to get him back on his feet, she thought. And what had Mahinnah been saying about a dagger?

 

-

 

The tavern was oddly quiet this evening, Dorian thought as he entered. The light inside was dim, dusky candles casting unnatural shadows over the walls. A mere scattering of occupants sat at the mismatched tables throughout, paired up in casual conversation or hunched over a tall drink in wordless solitude. A single dwarf manned the empty counter, polishing the same glass repeatedly as he grew lost in thought. Even Maryden’s soft strumming felt absent-minded.  Though strange, the absence of the usual raucous laughter and music was almost welcome. There were nights where Dorian wanted the crowded company and bad liquor, and then there were occasions such as these when he preferred the complacency that came from a group of people all calmly ignoring each other in the same room.

Dorian gripped the novels gathered in his arms a little tighter. The covers were worn, the content a little outdated, but each had been carefully selected from his reading nook up in Skyhold’s central tower to fulfill certain interests.

One person’s interests in particular, if that damned person could be _found_.

He surveyed the room with a careful squint. Earlier reflections on just how difficult it could be to find one Herald inside one castle were coming back around to taunt him. Mahinnah was a practical beacon, easy to spot - everything about him stood out from a distance.

Then again that could have been his affection talking, Dorian mused, frowning. Still, he imagined at least one guard or Orlesian noble wandering about must have seen him. So far there had been nothing to go on. Josephine mentioned she thought he had been up on the ramparts earlier, but Mahinnah’s favored sunny spot was vacant.

An unmistakable snort tugged at his attention. Behind a group of soldiers in the farthest corner sat Sera, her hands animatedly describing some story to Varric across from her. A frothy tankard of liquid, color barely describable in every language he knew, rested untouched between them.

Part of him didn’t wish to intrude. He had however come here hoping to talk, at least for a little while. Chatting was a great way to forget about the hole in the sky, he had discovered. If it wasn’t with his favorite person then he supposed he would be content with good friends, too.

It seemed Varric already sensed his intentions. He had noticed Dorian and was waving him over, nudging out a chair with his foot.

“I thought you’d keep standing there until next morning, staring off into space if we didn’t invite you over,” Varric chuckled as Dorian sidestepped around the soldiers and took a seat. “What had you so preoccupied? The _…Unabridged History of Arlathan? Antivian Secrets to the Perfect Garden?_ ”

He rummaged through two of the books Dorian off-loaded onto the table, clearly entertained.

“These aren’t for me, obviously,” Dorian scoffed. “They’re for our fearless leader and his unusual pastimes.”

Sera tugged one of the books towards her. She studied its faded cover, tracing the leather with a fingertip. “Is this why there’s suddenly a spot cleared off for a garden _within_ the gardens?”

“And why Josephine is still quietly lamenting over the expense report for the fancy imported marigold seeds,” Dorian explained, mildly exasperated.

“He’s going to single-handedly run the Inquisition’s finances into the ground.”

“Let him have a little fun, I say,” Dorian told them, shrugging. “He’s dealing with the end of the world after all.”

The tone of the conversation plummeted a notch as soon as the words left his lips. Dorian instantly regretted speaking them.

“...That is to say we all aren’t dealing with the same,” he offered briskly. “But, you know.” He raised an arm to wave the fingers on his left hand. “We haven’t been miraculously touched by Andraste herself.”

Sera rolled her eyes. They all knew at this point it had been the Divine in the Fade, though the reigning impressions of everyone overall still held the Herald up as Andraste’s mouthpiece. Only a handful of people were told the truth, and fewer chose to believe it.

“Speaking of,” said Varric curiously, “where is Mahinnah?”

Dorian shrugged for a second time. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve been looking for him for the past hour. If this is a game of hide and seek, I don’t want to participate.”

“War room? Practice grounds? Uh, quarters?” Sera suggested. She wrinkled her nose.

“Absent from all.”

“Maybe he just needed some peace.”

Varric’s minor implication and did not go unnoticed. Dorian rested a hand softly on the bent spine of _Imposter in the Imperium_. Concerns he had been harboring in silence for the last month began to resurface. He recognized similar unease in the expressions of his companions. Above all his worry rose the memory of Mahinnah scouring his rooms a few days prior, an unfamiliar sense of destitution in every movement.

“We can talk about it now, right?” Sera broke in loudly. “I mean, not around him of course, but since he’s not here, and we’re all thinking it now…”

“Your statement of the obvious is astonishing,” Dorian mumbled, although he was merely glad someone had said at last what lay at the forefront of all their speculation. An unspoken rule was initiated ever since they had first heard the news through Josephine’s wavering voice: don’t bring it up. Attempts had been made in the past and the results were never fruitful.

The moment following the advisor’s report was still clear in Dorian’s memory. Mahinnah had listened without a single word, expression paling, hands whitening as they curled tighter at his sides. Two days of falling apart led to six more of learning how to knit himself back together with less thread than when he began. There was only so much Dorian could do to help, and that knowledge bit after his heels too often.

Sera continued determinedly. “Really though, there has to be something else we can do.”

“We could mess around with his timeline, perhaps, prevent certain things from happening. Did that once, however. Didn’t much care for it.”

Varric reached out and took a thoughtful sip from the drink he then immediately regretted buying. “We could always-”

Whatever point he had been about to say was swiftly cut off as Cole appeared beside them with a soft rustle of worn fabric.

Sera barely prevented herself from scrambling upwards, jostling the table as she jumped. Varric merely blinked.

“You’ve gotta stop doing that, kid,” Varric chided, but his tone was friendly. He made no bother to hide his amusement as Sera grudgingly sat back. “Here, have a seat.”

“Sorry. I didn’t want to frighten you.”

Cole did not sit. Through limp strands of blonde hair his bright eyes caught Dorian’s. “I came because you need to help him,” he said.

“Who?”

“If by him you mean our Herald, that is precisely what we’re trying to do,” Dorian explained. “But how did you - no, nevermind.”

“You don’t understand.” Cole’s urgency was barely distinct through the soft, monotone quality of his voice. “Something is lost. You need to find it. This will help.”

Dorian straightened up in attention, final pieces of a revelation quickly falling into place. How could he have been so utterly _stupid_ not to realize it before?

“It’s from his Clan,” he said, and then again, louder: “Whatever he’s looking for, it’s from his Clan. He was tearing the place apart not too long ago searching for something.”

“I, uh, overheard something similar,” Varric chimed in. He did not disclose where he had overheard said information; Leliana had ears everywhere.

“Hang on!” Sera pounded a fist on her knee. A wild excitement was beginning to creep up into her face. “He’s mentioned something about a dagger before. That has to be it.”

Dorian focused back on Cole. “Do you know where this thing is? Is it a dagger?”

The spirit nodded. His stare was beginning to lose some of his focus. “Shifting, sideways, slipping into a lost place,” he whispered.  “It is guarded unknowingly. It glimmers dimly. The scales are much brighter.”

“ _Scales?_ ”

“No,” Dorian uttered in disbelief. It couldn’t be. “How is that even possible? Are you telling me it’s somewhere near a -?”

Before he even finished speaking Cole began slowly shaking his head.

“Smaller,” he corrected, as if this was enough of an explanation within itself. “Just as angry. Just as hungry. It’s very cold there.”

“Wyvern?” Varric proposed, ignoring Dorian’s muted _kaffas_ in the background. “Dragonling?”

Cole didn’t answer. He seemed to be studying the dwarf intently.

“Hang on,” Varric added with growing alarm. “I’m not going back there. I’ve already made peace with leaving that wasteland for good.”

Sera fixed him with an odd glance. “What?”

“Emprise du cold,” bemoaned Varric, slouching back in his chair mournfully. “Isn’t that right, kid?”

“There’s so much red lyrium there,” Cole acknowledged. “It blinds the air around you. Difficult to see, difficult to find what you’ve lost.”

“It must have been dropped or misplaced in a skirmish and he didn’t even realize until too late,” Dorian mused. “Obviously he wouldn’t ask us to go back and look for it, the idiot...”

If it weren’t for the gracelessness of the gesture, he would have thumped his his arms down on the table and laid his head upon them.

“You’re not thinking of going after it, are you?” Varric was amazed. “I understand it’s from his Clan, but-”

“It must have been all he had left though, don’t you see?” Dorian said wearily. “Besides, we may not even have to encounter whatever said creature decided to nest near it.”

_“We?”_

“No search is ever that simple. If we’re going, we might as well take everyone,” Varric suggested. He took a huge swig from his drink and absently hoped the alcohol would numb his lips before he could come up with any other stupid ideas. “Let’s ask Cassandra if she’d like to join. Leliana, Vivienne, Andraste’s ass…”

“Take Bull,” said the distant voice of Cole from where he no longer stood. Perhaps he was imagining it, but Dorian thought he sounded pleased.

“I am not doing this,” Sera insisted, puzzlement in her protest acting as a simultaneous contradiction. “I am not… are we doing this? Why can’t Cole just mention where it is?

“He may not know,” Varric reasoned.

He has an idea, I bet,” Sera argued.

“If he goes, he’ll probably get himself killed trying to get to it all alone.”

“Oh, and we’re going to be killed for it instead?”

The chatter between the other two grew, each attempting to come up with a better solution than the last. Dorian filtered their voices out, staring into the spot Cole had vanished from without a sound seconds prior. He felt as if the blank space was pulling at him. It implied the answer to a question he had been avoiding since he left Tevinter all those years ago _: how much love are you really capable of giving to another person? How much is that love going to cost?_

He pushed his chair out and stood up, gathering the forgotten books back into his arms. “Find a map,” he said to Varric, “and don’t tell him where we’re going.”

A headache was already starting to develop at his temples.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few days, they began to drop off one by one.

They collectively felt it was best this way. All of them leaving at once without the presence of their Inquisitor would rouse suspicion past what they could excuse themselves away from. Dorian was still dissatisfied with the proceedings, but he had to admit: there was a delightfully enthralling atmosphere surrounding their midday meetings, a brief few moments stolen away by one of the fireplaces in the main hall to put plans in motion. Intuitively, he could scheme with ease. Actively keeping secrets, especially from someone so important in multiple meanings of the word, was what left him faltering. The catalyst behind their mission felt so deeply personal, even though the hardships were not Dorian’s own.

Sera, previously uncertain and almost unwilling to participate, changed her outlook dramatically once the task was officially set. Her excitement altered the underlying tone of what they were attempting to do, and in some ways, helped to keep Dorian on track. Varric mainly took to sitting back and casually admonishing some of the stranger ideas she imagined. Cole, although not an active member of their covert little group, dropped by every so often to lend a word of encouragement or a partially helpful, partially confusing bit of advice.

Cassandra had taken some convincing. Eventually she began to understand, her choice to help drawn from her trust for the Inquisitor and her hard won admiration. Bull didn’t even need to hear the rest of the explanation before he agreed. Varric was quite right in thinking they should start off the conversation with mention of a possible dragon.

The main functions of the mission thus far had been broken into two categories: one group would capture the attention of the dragon if there did in fact happen to be one, while the other group searched.

“Distracting and dragon don’t belong in the same sentence,” Sera had said. Everyone lamented their agreement, and then began to spin ridiculous stories off how exactly one would distract a dragon.

It was a loose strategy, and likely to end in disaster, but they had to try. If anything, they’d come home empty handed with one less dragon in Thedas, or at least minor wounds and an exaggerated story of their daring retreat.

Varric departed Skyhold first. He claimed he had urgent Merchant’s Guild business to attend to, and that he’d only been gone for Kirkwall for a week or so. A day later, Sera claimed a fellow Jenny was nearby and needed her help. She wasn’t certain how long this mission would take.

That same afternoon, Bull and Cassandra left together. Cassandra had picked up on a Red Templar lyrium mining operation down in the Emerald Graves and required assistance to take them down. Bull happily, and publicly, volunteered.

Dorian was the last to go.

Mahinnah sensed something was off. Dorian could see it in his eyes, in the odd half frown directed towards he and Varric’s whispers before the dwarf left. Dorian knew there was no way he could keep this a complete secret. If the Inquisitor had already come to any conclusions, none of them were spoken aloud. Much of his time the past week was taken up with assisting Cullen in plotting troop movements, or drawn-out, boring meetings with noblemen, or what leagues of other Inquisitorial business those three advisors of his thought necessary. These distractions were well-timed. Still, Dorian noted the fatigue dragging at his heels, the faint bruises beneath the eyes. Leaving him was a challenge in itself.

“I need to go back to Tevinter,” Dorian said suddenly, the evening after Cassandra and Bull had gone. “It won’t take long, but it’s a rather urgent matter I don’t want to leave idling.”

Mahinnah glanced over, their shoulders brushing. Sitting against the long wall of the tallest ramparts beneath the setting sun was an odd place to read, but he had taken to this spot. After a time, Dorian found it pleasant enough to join him; in the least, the peace found in the presence of the other overwhelmed the discomfort of the weathered stones beneath them.

The stare reflected back was, as it was so often, curious. Mahinnah thumbed the corner of a page down and closed the book, looking thoughtful.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

He nodded. “I understand. I don’t necessarily want you to go, but if you must, then there’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

His acceptance sounded so simple. Dorian merely blinked, taken aback. No inquiries? No doubt? A multitude of explanations and excuses for his reasoning snapped all snapped in two.

“Okay,” Dorian uneloquently said for the second time. The ease of which his leave had been blessed found him hesitating.

“I’ll bring you back something interesting, Hinnah. Interesting enough to heal your inevitable despair at my departure along with the masses.”

Mahinnah lightly thumped the book against Dorian’s knee. “And what will you bring for the aforementioned masses?”

“The sight of me returning will be enough for them.”

Mahinnah’s resulting laughter was infectious. The deceit tightened around Dorian’s ribs a little further.

It was for his own good, he reminded himself. It wasn’t going to solve the whole problem, it likely wasn’t going to solve anything at all. Yet he knew how hard he had fought for his family’s amulet, a sole token of what good memories of home he possessed. This dagger, if all their conclusions were correct up to this point - and he fervently hoped they were - must be one in the same.

Dorian left the next morning. Mahinnah saw him off, following him for a time down the long bridge which led out into the mountains, and then returned to Skyhold in concerned, contemplative silence.

His friends were all terrible liars.

 

-

 

It was not, in fact, a dragon.

Cole had been correct on that point, at least. Tracks in the snow had proved as such. The spirit was often right about many things whether or not one understood the context, and they all had been relying on this fact all throughout their journey to the outskirts of Emprise du Lion.

It was, to their increasing displeasure, two slightly smaller than average dragons on the cusp of adolescence, and, judging by sections of scorched earth, rapidly developing fire-breathing skills.

Dorian hefted his pack higher on his shoulders, coming to a halt at the base of the path. Behind him the other four stopped with varying degrees of exhausted sighs and one or two growling stomachs.

They looked to the top of the peak, chilly wind picking up around them.

“‘S not as tall as I expected,” Sera said, breaking the silence. “Not even a mountain, really.”

“Yeah,” Varric agreed. He cheerfully dropped his pack into the snow, dusting the freshly falling flakes off Bianca. “It’s more like a small hill. Similar, I’d say, to the ones we saw all the time in the Hinterlands. You know, peaceful green slopes, fuzzy little rams, _dragons waiting at the top_ -”

Dorian could feel the disappointment radiating off Bull, who, to no one’s surprise, had brought only the smallest provisions possible. He had caught and cooked most of his food over their nightly campfires the entire way here, managing to find suitable prey hidden among a wilderness that appeared deserted at first sight. It was impressive, but no one wanted to join in.

“There will be other actual adult dragons, Bull,” Cassandra said dryly. “Three of them still linger south of here.”

She glanced through the bare tree trunks behind them. The surrounding forest, echoing with a red glow here and there, stopped some distance before opening up into the clearing they had arrived in. Bull merely sighed in wordless disapproval.

Dorian tossed his pack into the pile with the others. He sat directly into the snow, thanking the spells for warmth he had cast about his clothing. Mahinnah’s favorite fur-lined coat, a token guiltily borrowed unbeknownst to the owner, lay heavy on his shoulders.

A slow wave of his hand saw a crackling fire spring up before them, radiating a much needed warmth.

The afternoon’s meal was distributed among them as the chill began to leave their bones. Bull insisted he wasn’t too hungry, instead choosing to partake in small pieces of dried jerky offered by Sera.

Their lack of conversation was companionable, but throughout the quiet lunch, the presence of the unseen beast loomed above them.

Small towns they had passed through on their way here provided affirmation of the dragons’ existence. Before leaving Skyhold they had mapped potential locations of known nests, narrowing two down near to the places they had visited with the Herald before. The first had turned up empty, shells of broken eggs long since blown away and faint claw gouges in the ice. This spot was the remaining, and judging by the familiarity and signs of habitation they all were beginning to gleam from the surroundings, it was the one. Mysteriously, they had yet to see any creature flying about through the entirety of their journey thus far.

“So what are we supposed to do,” Sera asked, breaking the silence. “Search through every inch of snow until we find it?”

It was a question they had avoided the specifics of. Dedication to the process of actually finding the location had served to drown out the smaller details of their task.

“Not unless Sparkler knows a spell?” Varric asked, looking expectantly to Dorian.

“Yes and no,” he admitted. “I know a handful of spells for finding, and most of them require a portion of the thing you are trying to find. Not very helpful. However…”

His eyes gleamed. “I may have something else up my sleeve.”

“Which would be?” questioned Varric.

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Cole was precise,” Cassandra offered from her place beside Sera. “ _It is guarded unknowingly._ We’ve been witness to dragon hoards before.”

“It could be in a collection of other similar things: weapons, abandoned armor, perhaps,” Bull spoke up. “It makes sense.”

“Something of the sort would be easier to spot than looking blindly through miles of snow. Or, looking potentially aided by magic.”

“I can hear you, you know.”

“Wish we had a description of it.”

“Why are we doing this again?”

Varric’s inquiry, repeated either aloud or in thought by all of them over the past few days, was not met by any quick assurance.

“Because if anything, we owe him this much,” Cassandra said. Murmurs of agreement went round the circle.

“This is stupid. Bastard better appreciate it,” Sera grumbled afterwards, inciting a hearty laugh from Bull and a crooked grin from Cassandra.

Dorian looked to the mountain again. Late afternoon sun hovered low over the imposing slope, casting its craggy sides in shadow. He listened carefully through the wind’s whisperings, straining for any indication something was anticipating them at the peak.

If Mahinnah didn’t appreciate it, Dorian’s first wave of revenge would be to steal this coat.

 

-  


“They’ve returned!”

Josephine’s voice rang out through the study. Mahinnah looked up from the journal on the desk, a blot of ink dripping slowly down the quill poised in his hand.

“That patrol wasn’t due back for another day,” he said with a frown. “Why are they so early?”

Josephine stood in the doorframe, strange excitement apparent in the way her usual poise was beginning to slip. Her clipboard had been put aside for a note clutched in one hand.

“No, your Worship,” she corrected. “Dorian, Cassandra, Bull, Sera, and Varric have all returned.”

Quill forgotten, ink slid down his wrist.

“All at once?”

“Yes!”

Here she paused, curbing her enthusiasm and clearing her throat. Mahinnah hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, but she knew his suspicions of his inner circle’s whereabouts and odd subsequent disappearances. The past few weeks had been dour without most of his friends around. The Inquisitor had taken mainly to straying about his newly planted garden in a reserved spot among Skyhold’s walls, perfectly composed to the naked eye, but Josephine could see the tension trailing him everywhere he went.

“A scout saw them approaching,” she continued, holding out the somewhat crumpled note. “They appear to be none worse for the wear, but they were moving rather slowly.”

“Any estimate on arrival?”

“Not long. Inquisitor, do you think-”

Mahinnah alit with a sudden energy, jumping up and heading out the door with a smile both apprehensive and relieved. He took the note from Josephine as he passed but did not even give it a cursory glance.

“Thank you,” floated his voice from around the corner and down the hall as he disappeared. Josie shook her head, a strange excitement rising as she hurried after him.

A minute of brisk walking through Skyhold’s corridors, excusing themselves as they bumped past person after person, saw the two walking down the final flight of steps into open air.

Mahinnah stopped short, causing Josephine to nearly collide right into him.

Across the grass came the long awaited travelers. Dorian led the way, the others following closely behind. They made no show of trying to hide their intentions this time around. It was not quite a victory march, as their feet lagged and the strain of their journey lay heavy upon them. All the same, their little party drew several eyes as they neared the entrance to the fortress where Mahinnah and Josephine stood apprehensively still.

The space between them lessened. A sudden nervousness overtook Dorian’s previous confidence, and he faltered, slowing his stride. It felt as if ages had passed before he closed the gap.

“Hello,” he said with a gallantry he did not entirely feel. “We’ve, ah, returned.”

Behind him he heard the soft _ugh_ of Cassandra’s audible scowl.

“Nice,” Varric whispered beside him.

Dorian strove to ignore them both.

“I’m pleased you all appear to be in, well, relative states of well-being?” Josephine said in welcome, taking in their notably haggard appearances.

“Relative, yes,” Cassandra concurred. Her gaze roved over Skyhold’s walls, as if she longed to be back within them once more. “Some of us fared worse than others.”

Sera snickered in the background, flapping a hand towards Dorian’s back. “Just wait until you see the burn.”

Mahinnah spoke then, facing Dorian with a decisive frown. “ _Burn_? Dorian. What is this all about?”

Varric made an ostentatious performance of clearing his throat.

“Yeah, Sparkler,” he suggested with a wink and an elbow jab to the hip. “Why don’t you tell our noble herald all about it? Meanwhile, I believe the rest of us are in need of a catnap or two.”

The group all nodded or added their agreement. With a mix of delighted and concerned looks in Dorian’s direction they began to disassemble one by one, each trailing off to their own respective corners of the fortress. Cassandra laid a hand on Mahinnah’s arm as she passed, but said nothing. Varric gave a grin, tired but contented, and supplied a, “See you later, kid,” as he strolled behind the elf and up the long set of steps. He tugged Josephine’s sleeve as he passed, beckoning her away, to her helpless disapproval.

Before long, only the the two of them were left in the courtyard, the whispering of a subtle breeze the solitary sound between them.

“Hinnah,” said Dorian gingerly. The last dredges of his robust self-assurance were slowly bleeding out. Doubts clouded what convictions he had held in such close confidence only hours before.

He juggled a small, fabric wrapped object between his palms, previously unnoticed, before slipping it into a pocket within his clothes. An offered hand, imploring, stretched out.

“Come with me,” Dorian proposed. After an unsteady silence, Mahinnah did

He led the other across Skyhold's lawns to the gardens, sidestepping the well manicured shrubbery for a closed off plot around the corner of a shambling brick partition once belonging to a larger part of the castle's ancient walls. The grass was wilder there, strange, unnamed plants twisting among ordinary herbs and flowers beneath the trunks of infant trees. Leaves tinged in orange littered the ground, breezing past weathered stones arranged in winding circles along the singular path.

"You've been busy here, I see," Dorian admired. The evening had hardly begun. Warmth from the midday sun still lingered in the porous wood of the bench they stopped in front of. The atmosphere felt calmer, older, as if time could not touch it with the same intensity as the rest of the world.

"Are these foreign?" He swiveled around to Mahinnah, who lingered quietly just behind him. "These lilies?"

"No."

The tone in his voice made Dorian wince.

"I've never particularly cared for lillies, but I can see how one would appreciate them," he continued, waving at the flowers. "Deathly allergic, an old acquaintance of mine used to be. One touch and only the most skillfully applied magic could assist him."

"Mmm."

"Those sunflowers, though, I like. They appear to be flourishing well."

"Dorian."

"And the elfroot, I-"

" _Dorian_."

He faltered.

"Yes?"

"You're squeezing the life from my fingers."

Dorian relinquished his grip, unaware he had been holding on so tightly. Mahinnah was gazing at him with a look similar to what he imagined Samson had seen across the mountains at Haven during their first encounter.

As if someone had nudged him forward, he took to the bench. Mahinnah did not join him.

"I never meant to lie to you, exactly," Dorian confessed.

"I know."

"You know?"

The herald's shoulders sagged. 

"You all were not as convincing as you may have thought," he admitted. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as it caught in the wind. "Your personal matters are your own, of course. You owe nothing more than you wish at any time to the Inquisition. Yet I still don't fully understand. Wherever you and the others went, why keep it a secret?"

“Part of me wished to keep it a surprise, although now that makes as little sense to me as it probably sounds to you. We also did it to protect you," Dorian protested. "Two large and irritable dragons were involved.”

"Protect me?"

“If the Inquisition loses you, you don’t think Thedas will suffer the consequences?”

Mahinnah almost laughed.

"Dorian," he said, "You don't think my tolerance to danger is higher than most? I wouldn't have cared where you went. I would follow you anywhere."

"You and your blasted silver tongue," Dorian huffed suddenly, scowling. "Here."

He stood up abruptly, thrusting the wrapped bundle out from its hiding place and into Mahinnah's arms. "If this is the wrong thing I'm taking your coat with me when I leave."

"What?"

"Just open it."

Mahinnah stared at the bundle before gingerly peeling back the cloth. The weight felt startlingly familiar, as if it were something he had held many times before. A touch of old metal glinted in the fading light.

“How,” he began in a whisper as the cloth dropped to the ground, “did you find this?”

In his grip he held a dagger of medium size, simply crafted, not outstandingly important in any initial regard. Weather worn ironbark shaped a smooth handle, while steely iron ore in an uncomplicated design made up the blade itself. It had clearly been well taken care of at one point, but years of neglect or omission from memory had dulled the sharp edge. A solitary inscription was carved delicately up through the ironbark in a language not immediately recognizable to the eye.

Dorian felt himself shrug automatically, an attempt to disregard the cloying sentiment felt at Mahinnah’s quivering hands.

“Simple, really,” he said. “When great minds gather together in a collective pursuit, the outcome is often favorable to the collective desire.”

“But I thought this _gone_ , Dorian,” Mahinnah protested with a sudden fervency. “I’ve never told you of it. Why go through all that for what similar things you could likely buy in a seedy Orlais alley?”

“There were… informants who may have noticed your odd behavior as of late.”

“Varric.”

“And others who could not keep those observations to themselves.”

_“Sera.”_

“Through excellent tracking skills and the power of hindsight we traced this back to our last destination,” Dorian proclaimed. “Plus, I used magic.”

He wriggled his fingers. “Finding spells can become extraordinary when the need for the hidden object is a great one.”

A thousand arguments bubbled forth and were dashed under a wave of weariness. The entire circumstance was too bizarre, too complex to consider fully. Mahinnah appeared to sag, as if the weight of these conflicting reactions were taking any iota of fight from him. He looked from Dorian to the dagger and then back once more, at a rare loss for words.

“I truly did not think I would see it again,” he said. “It was my father’s work. He made this for me after the vallaslin; it was no first recourse, he said, but maybe some small assurance I could keep with me. After the Clan - well, I assumed I did not-”

Repressed grief always built higher walls than sorrow released piece by manageable piece. Dorian could feel the waters surging against a barrier held faithfully for many years. Perhaps it did not have to come down all at once, just yet.

“Later,” Dorian said. Mahinnah nodded stiffly at the gentle hand on his arm.

“I doubt the process was simple, spell or no,” he challenged quietly, turning the weapon over as he leaned into Dorian’s touch. “I don’t have words for you. I don’t know how to thank you. The need for this wasn’t your own.”

“The need, amatus, was to see you happy,” Dorian said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“You did all of this solely for me?”

“I didn’t do it for the laurels,” he remarked drily.

“There were dragons, vhenan.”

“Inconsequential.”

“What could I have possibly achieved in a past life to encounter you this time around?”

“Something spectacular, I imagine.”

“I’m still very angry with you.”

“Understandable. But I did owe you for my amulet.”

“Idiot,” Mahinnah said, laughing as he yanked Dorian forward in a tight embrace and a kiss to render him out of breath.

 

In the setting sun, the two wandered slowly back to Skyhold’s main hall, the dagger hanging securely once more from Mahinnah’s hip.

“Even if you killed the dragons, my title still remains,” Mahinnah contemplated jokingly.

“I would not dare to take dragonslayer from you,” Dorian said in mock contempt. “Besides, we did no such thing. The damage to both parties was only minor. I’ll tell you of it later on. They’ll live to hoard another day.”

“I bet Bull was disappointed.”

“Oh, amatus, I’ve yet to hear the end of it.”

 


End file.
